Morning Breaking

He wakes alone in a king-size bed
But he isn't a king,
Not even a jack,
Certainly not an ace.
His lamentations rise up in bubbles
Until they reach the ceiling and burst,
Spattering him with letters:
Ws and Ls and Vs,
Their sharp corners piercing his head,
Shuffling like Scrabble tiles,
Filling his mind with words he has never thought:
Like existential and dread.
He can't think for their chatter
So he gets up,
Gets ready
And goes he knows not where.